“I fear you think I am very quixotic, aunt.”
“No, dear; you are not tilting at windmills, but at real dragons, which I am afraid are much too strong for you! But we must think it over. Dr. Graves is a good, sensible man, and though of course wrapped up in the conventionalism of his class is still open to reason. You will want more armour, and a sharper sword than Isabella’s for this fight, I am thinking.”
“Yet, I can see,” said the girl, “in my prophetic vision, our Boabdil giving me the key of the fortress, if we go to work properly. Meanwhile, let us build our Santa Fe.”
“Castles in Spain! dear—just the place for them. I can see ghosts of giant physiologists and vampire surgeons guarding the treasures of their vermilion towers, and warning you off their premises.”
“I don’t fear them, aunt. I shall visit Isabella’s tomb again for courage, though.”
“I think we had better sleep over this. Buenas noches, señorita.”
“Con dios.”
When the time came to leave Granada, Aunt Janet noticed that her niece was in rather low spirits. She guessed the cause, for it was manifest she was more than interested in the young doctor; and though it was difficult to say whether her interest was more in his work than in himself, or the contrary, she was glad that something had arisen to rouse the girl from the grief which had weighed upon her since her father’s death. That was the charm of Aunt Janet—she always accepted accomplished facts with equanimity, and perhaps was rather a fatalist. If Mildred was really in love, so much the better—she thought it would replace the lost light which had gone out of her life; and if, still better, she had really found a great philanthropic object in life, why the meeting with young Elsworth was the best thing that could have happened.
“There’s a divinity that shapes our ends
Rough-hew them how we will.”